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This time they have a small house to temporarily call home.
The town they have stopped in is a little more modern than some of the others.
More connected to the rest of the country.
So they won’t stay here long.
Artemy is already worried that he’s heard his father’s name mentioned.
Only in passing.
In a conversation he wasn’t part of.
But spoken aloud; clearly.
Even if it was behind his back.
They will need to leave soon.
But that’s a worry that can wait till tomorrow.
Tonight, Artemy has come home, tired and worn.
The kitchen smells, mostly, of onions.
Dannil is standing by the stove.
Throwing paprika aggressively into the pot.
Daniil is only partially dressed.
As he usually is these days.
Wrapped in a brocaded dressing-gown with a length of fox fur wrapped around his neck.
His bare feet stick out at the bottom.
And Artemy knows, from experience, that there will only be a nightshirt underneath the fanciful outer layer.
Artemy goes to peer over Daniil’s shoulder into the pot.
Some vegetables float to the surface.
Daniil tries to mash one of them against the side of the pot with a wooden spoon but it doesn’t give.
“You’ll have to wait; they’re not soft enough yet.”
“I can wait.”
On days like this Artemy is certain that this is what peace must feel like.